


boom goes the dynamite

by Katraa



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cisco and Caitlin friendship, Fluff, Frotting, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Smut, as sweet as you can get with these two, season 1 timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 21:07:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9625391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katraa/pseuds/Katraa
Summary: "Like I said, he's really handsome," Caitlin jests and squeezes her friend's hand.  "Have you told him?""Are you nuts?" Cisco deadpans.  "That'd be a fun conversation.  Hey boss-man, I thought you should know that I dig you and totally want in your pants.  Or you in mine.  Or whatever.""Scandalous," Caitlin says, approvingly.(au: takes place during the middle of season one: wells/cisco, cisco & caitlin friendship; frotting occurs)





	

**Author's Note:**

> because i firmly believe there needs to be more eobard/cisco.  
> you know before he turns out to be a huge dick.  
> you win some you lose some.

As all good things tend to, it started over dinner. Particularly, over Big Belly Burger.  
   
It was late and they were on the verge of reverse engineering an equation. It would be a minor break-through, granted the equation served no real purpose other than to tease the mind and provide academic satisfaction. It wouldn't add to Barry's speed, it wouldn't solve the metahuman influx, and it _definitely_ wouldn’t come close to a Nobel Prize. It was merely something to do.  
   
So, it started over dinner.  
   
Somewhere along the way, between the fries dredged in ketchup and the grease temporarily staining the keyboard, it started.  
   
It wasn't what books, television or other people had explained. It wasn’t a rush and it most certainly did not feel like electricity. He didn't see his life flash before his eyes nor did he see the future of what could be. In fact, he didn't feel particularly _different_. What he _did_ manage to feel was a sinking feeling in his gut, followed by an unsettling slow burning in the pit of his stomach, lastly accompanied with a prick of cold sweat on the back of his neck. He didn't feel butterflies and he didn't feel joy. The best way to put it? He felt every syllable of the phrase _oh fuck_ crashing down on him all at once.  
   
He had a _crush_ on his _boss_.  
 

••••••••••

   
Science is a study of actions and reactions. It makes sense and beats on with a purpose. You can learn it. You can use it. You can understand it if you try hard and keep on trying. Life? Life is nothing like that. Especially _crushes_.  
   
Cisco Ramon can't stop staring at the way his ice melts in his whiskey glass. It's a pretty simple chemical reaction; ice and the process of melting, that is. It's not so much that he's fascinated by what's happening _in_ the glass, but rather, his desperation to ignore what's happening _outside_ of it.  
   
It's been a long week. Not just because they've been tasked with fighting some super evil villains, but also because he hasn't been sleeping. Every time he lays down he _thinks_. Which never was a bad thing growing up, because it lead to epiphanies and ideas that changed his future-- or at least made his projects easier to finish. Thinking was usually a good thing. But as of late? As of late thinking was the last thing he wanted to do.  
   
It was inevitable, was what he thought to himself on the first night. Spend enough time with a person and you get to know them, get to know their quirks and what makes them tick. First, you think, wow what a great friend I've found. Then, you begin to second-guess that and wonder if it goes deeper. Then, you start to confuse yourself by thinking you're actually crushing on them. Usually, it ends when you talk yourself out of it and leave it alone for a couple of days. Usually, crushes are quick and last no longer than a month in the worst of cases. That's always been the case with him, anyway.  
   
He's had a lot of crushes before. Particularly ones that ended very poorly. He's had crushes on beautiful girls, on nerdy girls, on celebrities. If he's honest, he probably had an hour long crush on Caitlin at one point, too. Crushes are natural and just a chemical reaction wrought on by hormones and stress and shared experiences. He's just not used to the focus of those feelings glomming themselves on to _dudes_.  
   
It's happened before. It's not like this is his first time having _those_ types of crushes. He's never cared enough about respective genital to draw the line. Usually it's girls, but that's because they're so pretty and easy to admire. You can tell a chick is hot and knows what she wants within a few minutes of meeting. Dudes? They're harder. Pun perhaps intended.  
   
Regardless, it's been a very long, sleepless week. When he _does_ manage to catch a couple of hours, it's plagued with silly, disjointed dreams that make zero sense. Sometimes _he_ shows up, and by sheer willpower the dream ends and he's back in reality, in his own bed, panting heavily, eyes glued to the ceiling.  
   
He has it _bad_.  
   
He gives the whiskey glass another shake, watching the ice swirl around. He's never been one to take to the bottle to cope, but this situation is all sorts of messed up and nuanced. So why not try something new? Apparently that's the hot new trend according to his brain.  
   
The whiskey-laden reprieve ends when someone - Joe probably - calls him over to the group. Everyone's gotten together to celebrate Joe's birthday, and Joe wanted nothing more than to have takeout and relax at STAR labs. It's simple and so Joe.  
   
Currently, they're arguing over a tv show and Joe wants Cisco's opinion. Usually, this would make him proud, swell with pride that _yes_ , he is the expert. But today? Today he wants nothing to do with his group of friends standing around _him_.  
   
But he heads over because like all things, he needs to get over it. There's no point in beating himself up over something that's just confined to his own headspace. So he walks over and catches Barry's eyes, giving him a nod in way of greeting.  
   
They're in the midst of discussing the most recent episode of _The Walking Dead_ and Cisco can't help himself. It's a welcomed distraction. It's welcome until it's not.  
   
After about ten minutes of debating about the fate of the show, the fate of the characters, who's banging who behind the scenes, he's realized that he's finished over half his glass. Which wouldn't be a problem save for the fact this is already his second and it's whiskey on the rocks. And for someone that doesn't ordinarily drink that's just bad news bears.  
   
"If you just think about it for a second," he begins, gesticulating with the hand that's holding his glass, "it doesn't make any sense. How did they get out of there? Did they magically phase through a wall?"  
   
There's a quiet snort - probably Caitlin - and Cicso laughs, too, because he's picturing it.  
   
"I'm not saying that," Barry answers, arms crossed, "what I'm saying is that--"  
   
It's about that time that Cisco forgets how hands work. He was _trying_ to bring his hand up to his face in classic 'facepalm' style. What happened? He realized belatedly that he was _still holding a glass_ half full (or half empty but that was a debate for another day) and, in efforts to not spill it all over himself, jerks it, and himself, to the far right, definitely overcompensating.  
   
He's a mess of limbs and stumbling and _who put that wheelchair there, honestly_. He almost falls flat on his face, almost drops the glass, almost cusses loud enough to make all the saints blush. But it's just almost.  
   
It's just almost because _someone_ catches his wrist just in time. _Someone_ has insanely fast reflexes and prevents him from months of embarrassment. No, it isn't the fastest man alive that saves him - ironically enough - it's just _him_. Of course it's _him_.  
   
"Are you okay?" Barry asks.

"Yeah, 'm good," Cisco mumbles back. Time catches back up with him and he's acutely aware of the fact that Dr. Well's hand is curled around his wrist, steadying the glass and him by proxy.  
   
"What's gotten into you?" It's spoken gently, despite the cutting edge to it.  
   
"Sorry," Cisco says quickly and takes a step back. The hand on his wrist falls away and he feels as if he's been burnt. There's heat coiled in the pit of his stomach and he's so glad he's been drinking because his face is on fire. He isn't sure if he's embarrassed or ablaze from the contact.  
   
_Get ahold of yourself, Ramon_ , he scolds himself as he brushes his free hand back through his hair.  
   
"Maybe a little less next time?" Joe chuckles, giving him a fond look.  
   
And just like that, the conversation returns to the television show. Cisco excuses himself to the kitchen to grab some water, but most importantly some air.  
   
When he arrives, he leans back against the tiny kitchen's counter and sucks in a deep breath. He needs to get it together. He needs to get over this. He almost just spilled his drink on his boss. He almost just combusted because his boss touched him. This wasn't like him at all. This silent pining was absurd.  
   
"I'm losing it," Cisco whispers to himself, a weak laugh filtering through his lips. He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead and just breathes.  
   
Around that time, Caitlin Snow quietly walks into the kitchen. She stays silent for a good thirty seconds before she politely clears her throat, alerting Cisco to her arrival.  
   
"Hey," she says, warmly, friendly as he walks over to him.

"Hey yourself," Cisco says, hand falling from his face, forcing a tiny smile.  
   
"You sure you're okay?" Caitlin begins. "I've never seen you that… on edge."  
   
"On edge?" Cisco laughs, not because it's absurd but because she's _so right_. "Nah. More like too much whiskey too fast."

"Mhm," she says, not sounding convinced. She reaches for his now empty whiskey glass and sets it aside. "Cisco, I've known you for how long now? I know when you're lying."  
   
"'m not lying," Cisco says, defensively. His brows furrow together and he stares at her.  
   
"Sure," Caitlin murmurs and leans back against the counter beside him. "What's on your mind?"  
   
"Besides how embarrassed I am?" Cisco jokes, shaking his head.  
   
"Yes, besides that," she laughs and gently nudges him in the side. "Have you been sleeping? You look really exhausted."  
   
"A few hours here and there. Nothing bad," Cisco lies. "Just trying to get my research done."

"Mm." Caitlin looks away, back towards the group in the other room. She plays with the ends of her hair, rubbing them back and forth between her fingers. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"  
   
"I know," Cisco says, and he means it. He knows that no matter how crazy things get, she's always going to be there, and he'll always be there for her. Almost dying in an explosion can do that to two people. "I promise."  
   
"Ok," says Caitlin as he drops her hands to her side. "So…who is it?"  
   
"What?" Cisco's brows furrow again.

"Who is it?" Caitlin repeats. "You're clearly distracted from work lately and keep day dreaming."  
   
Cisco feels ice sliding down the back of his neck. His heart skips a beat and he feels like there's a vice on his lungs. He knew he was a bad liar, but he didn't know he was an open book. Rather, he didn't know he was _that_ obvious when he wasn't trying to be _that obvious._ Usually he's vocal about the girls he digs. Usually everyone knows when he's pining to get some coffee with someone.  
   
"That's it!" Caitlin says, excited. She drops her voice to a quick whisper, "I promise I won't tell. But who is it?"

"Caitlin, you've got this all wrong…" Cisco begins, hesitating, worrying at his bottom lip.  
   
"Oh no, it isn't Iris, is it?" Caitlin whispers, utterly scandalized. "Because _that_ could get a bit hairy--"  
   
"What? No! Of course it isn't Iris," Cisco blurts out and then quickly hushes himself as well. He doesn’t need everyone hearing about his lovelife, or lackthereof.  
   
"Then who is it?" Caitlin presses on. "Is it someone I know?"  
   
"Yes -- I mean, it doesn't matter. Really. It's just a stupid crush, ok? You know how I get," Cisco says, trying to save some face. He makes a move to push back from the counter to refill his abandoned whiskey class, but Caitlin gently slaps his hand away from it.  
   
"No more booze until you spill the beans," she says, obviously meant in the best possible way.  
   
"When did you get so nosey?" Cisco sighs. He tries for the glass again and she swats his hand away harder. "It's complicated, ok? It's kinda hard for me to wrap my mind around."  
   
Caitlin goes quiet, staring at their hands. After what feels like forever, she looks up at her friend, face tinted pink. "Oh Cisco… I'm so sorry," she begins, and Cisco frowns. Had she figured it out? How had he given it away? "…You know you're my best friend and I'd do anything for you, right? But I don’t think…"  
   
It clicks.  
   
"Oh god, no! No, I didn't mean you," Cisco rambles and he pulls his hand away like it's on fire. Why does this keep happening to him. "I mean, no offense, really, but you're like my sister. Totally not cool." 

The shock turns into laughter and Caitlin brings her hand up to her mouth to silence the giggles. She seems happy, relieved. It's something Cisco cherishes about their friendship.  
   
"You have a crush? Really? Who?"  
   
Neither of them had noticed that Barry Allen had stepped into the kitchen. Now, with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face, he crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe.  
   
"Barry, it's rude to just walk into a conversation like that," Caitlin scolds, face still pink and hands on her hips.

"Not cool," Cisco echoes and he most definitely is not avoiding the subject.

"There's no door, so I couldn't knock," Barry jokes. He cocks his head to the side. "But really, man. Who is it? Is it that new waitress at Jitters? Because Iris knows her and I can totally ask for you."  
   
Realizing that this topic was filled with land mines, Cisco panics. He doesn't want to talk about this. He doesn't want to lie to his friends. He doesn't want to face the music, the truth himself. His hands are sweating and he isn't sure what to do.  
   
"It's not -- Listen, guys, I appreciate it, I do, but not this time, please," he begs as he all but storms out of the kitchen, leaving a very confused Caitlin Snow and Barry Allen.  
 

••••••••••

   
It's a couple of days later that everyone besides Cisco and Caitlin head to Big Belly Burger for a quick lunch.  
   
Cisco is in the middle of doodling around his equations and Caitlin has been aggressively typing at the computer all morning. It's quiet, it's comforting. The productive silence between them is a welcomed distraction from the continued sleepless nights and thoughts of _what if_. At least Barry had dropped it. At least Caitlin had dropped it. Until today.  
   
"So…" Caitlin begins, not looking away from the computer screen.  
   
"So?" Cisco parrots, not looking up from his doodle of a monster, either.  
   
"When were you going to tell me?"

"Tell you what?" Danger. Danger!  
   
"That you have the hots for Harrison Wells. Which, by the way, I don't blame you, he is _very_ handsome, but…"  
   
Panic. Absolute panic.  
   
Cisco chokes on his own spit and starts sputtering. He reaches for his water bottle and chugs, still coughing. Caitlin remains where she is, eyes affixed to the computer screen. She waits. When Cisco finally catches his breath, he looks over to her with wild eyes.  
   
"That's a joke, right?"  
   
"Would have been if you didn't just die for a whole minute," Caitlin hums, smiling knowingly to herself.  
   
"Caitlin, c'mon, that makes no sense--"  
   
"It actually makes a lot of sense," she continues, tapping her nails against the keyboard. "I was wondering why you kept spilling things lately, but then I realized it was whenever he was around. And then you stopped going to lunch with him and stopped staying late whenever he was, too." She finally looks over. "And then your reaction at Joe's birthday the other night."  
   
He really was an open book.  
   
"Caitlin…" Cisco isn't sure where to begin, what to say. 

"I'm not judging you," she assures him, reaching out to gently touch his hand. "I promise."  
   
"I know," Cisco breathes, trying to keep it together, keep it calm.  
   
"Like I said, he's really handsome," Caitlin jests and squeezes her friend's hand. "Have you told him?"

"Are you nuts?" Cisco deadpans. "That'd be a fun conversation. Hey boss-man, I thought you should know that I dig you and totally want in your pants. Or you in mine. Or whatever."  
   
"Scandalous," Caitlin says, approvingly. Her hand leaves Cisco's to cover her mouth, stifling a laugh. 

"Caitlin," he groans and he all but buries his face into his arms on top of the desk.

"Hey," Caitlin says, dropping the act. She reaches over to gently pat him on the back. "Hey, listen. It's nothing to be ashamed about. People get crushes on their bosses all the time. I know I did before Ronnie and I got together. Trust me. It was bad."  
   
Cisco knows she's trying to help, but it isn't. It's just making this all set in. It's just making it seem all the more real. It's so stupid and he wishes there was an 'off' switch somewhere.  
   
"…When did it start?" she pries.  
   
"Couple of weeks ago," Cisco admits, not lifting his head. "I guess. I don't really know. It just happened at dinner the other night."  
   
"You guys went to dinner?"

"Big Belly Burger, yeah. Real romantic," Cisco snorts into the cove his arms make.  
   
"Ah."  
   
"His foot-- god, I sound like a crappy young adult novel right now. Please make it stop."  
   
"If you were a crappy young adult novel, Cisco, you would have fangs. And be sparkling." She pauses and then excitedly continues, "Or! Or he has the fangs and the sparkles and you just don't know it yet. Have you seen him in the daylight lately?"  
   
"Yes. Today actually," Cisco says, trying to sound mad when he actually just wants to laugh. Somehow, _somehow_ she always knew how to cheer him up.

"We could call him Sparkwells."

"Sparkwells? Really? What kinda nickname is that?" Cisco asks as he finally raises his head from his arms. "If anything, he'd be…" He pauses, mulling it over. "Edwells. _Boom_."  
   
"Edwells?" Caitlin repeats, lifting a brow. "Oh, as in Edward…" She trails off, scrunching up her nose. "Really? You're going with that? I'd give it a two."  
   
"Harsh," Cisco laughs, feeling lighter, better. "But yeah, not my best."  
   
Caitlin smiles, pats him on the back once more, and then gets back to work. She doesn't bring it up again. And neither does Cisco.  
   
At least, not until the benefit gala the next week.  
 

•••••••••• 

   
It was the Mayor's benefit gala at the local museum. It was the fanciest suit-and-tie event around. Black ties mandatory. Each of the STAR labs employees received an invite (surprisingly) and each of them had agreed to attend, so long as everyone else did. Cisco didn't particularly enjoy the dressing up events, but they did have their perks: great food, great company and awesome champagne he otherwise would never dream of drinking.  
   
"Pretty awesome, right?" Barry asks, lingering near the edge of the large ballroom.  
   
"Yeah, if you consider pretentious awesome," Cisco jokes, but then nods. "The chocolate fountain is pretty cool."  
   
"Dip anything in chocolate and it's ten times better," Barry agrees with a laugh. "Have you seen Iris yet?"  
   
"Nope. I think she was catching a ride over with Caitlin, though. I haven't seen her yet, either." Cisco shrugs. He reaches up to touch his hair, forgetting that there's gel in it. It feels weird, sticky, gross.  
   
"Hey, stop that," Barry says. "You're gonna look like you just woke up if you mess with it anymore."

"Don't I always?" he jokes.  
   
"Fair," Barry jokes right back and then stretches his arms above his head. "It's been a pretty quiet week, all considered. Tonight's a good way to wrap it up."

"Yeah. Definitely needed the break."  
   
"Yeah? Something bothering you lately?"  
   
He stepped right into that one. He can't even be mad. Cisco shrugs and he slips his hands into his pants' pockets. "Not really. Not sleeping well lately."

"All those horror movies. I don't get how you can watch those before bed."

"Hey, _The Shining_ is an all-time classic with a rockstar cast and some of the most quotable lines ever," Cisco defends and he shakes his head.  
   
"But to sleep to?"  
   
"Fair."  
   
Barry laughs again and gently pats Cisco's shoulder as he passes by. "I'm gonna go check out who's here. Don't get into too much trouble."

"Right back at you."  
   
He watches as his friend leaves. His gaze turns to the crowd around him. It's a sea of strangers wearing outfits that he'll never afford. It's a sea of faces that are probably local celebrities but he can’t be bothered to look it up on Instagram or Facebook.

Thankfully, around that time a waiter happens past him. Cisco plucks a flute of champagne off the try with a quiet ‘thanks’ before he heads to meander through the crowd. Eventually, he finds himself on the top level, standing on one of the balconies overlooking the ballroom. Behind him is the city and the stars, which is quite symbolic given his current situation. His phone buzzes and he reaches for it, careful not to spill his drink. 

Naturally, it’s Caitlin asking if he and Barry are there yet. He quickly types back a response and then goes back to people-watching. It had never really been his thing growing up, but as of late it had started to grow on him. It was nice to take a step back, out of your own shoes, and just observe. It was freeing, in a weird way. It was similar to the escape he found in movies, in comics. The way he could just be someone else, live through someone else, just for a brief stint of time. 

“It’s remarkable how many people will show up under the guise of charity.”

Cisco nearly jumps out of his skin and off the balcony in surprise. He had come up here to be alone, to think, at least just for awhile. He hadn’t expected anyone else to be up here, let alone _him_. And why did he keep referring to him as that? It didn’t make it any less real, did it?

“Yeah?” Cisco responds dumbly, turning around.

“You don’t really think they’re only here to support a good cause, do you? I thought you were sharper than that.” It’s meant to be a joke but right now his emotions are alit and he isn’t sure about anything anymore.

“Har har,” he says and presses the rim of the flute to his lips. “What are you doing up here, anyway?”

“Likely for the same reason as you.” There’s that all too familiar sound of tiny mechanics as the wheelchair begins to move. Rather than move closer to Cisco, Harrison Wells brings the chair closer to the window behind them. “Though I doubt the majority of those downstairs are as displeased to see you.”

Ah. Sometimes, Cisco forgets. Sometimes, he forgets that his boss is the man behind the explosion that caused so much dismay for so long, that _continues_ to cause dismay.

“Hey, that was awhile ago, now. Besides, I don’t think anyone is thinking about that tonight,” Cisco says, attempting to find the silver lining in an otherwise very shitty situation. He heads over to the window and stares out at the city. “The city’s still here, right?”

“I never saw you as an optimist,” Harrison says, though there’s the slightest quirk to his lips.

“What? Me? An optimist? I’m a _scientist_ ,” Cisco corrects with a laugh. They silently acknowledge the fact that both are usually mutually exclusive.  
   
“Your hair’s different.”

That strikes something in him. Not a nerve, but a chord. Cisco feels every hair stand on edge along his arms, his legs, his back. He feels his mouth dry and his tongue flail uselessly in his mouth, trying to formulate a response. To the naked eye, he’s standing there calm as day, but deep down, he’s a hot mess.

“Barry attacked it with gel,” Cisco defends and he clears his throat. “A lot of gel. He said I wasn’t allowed to leave the lab looking like a hobo.”

That rips a tiny chuckle from Harrison Wells. It’s a rare sound, for sure. It’s something between seductive and dangerous. 

“It certainly did the trick.”

Cisco all but pouts. “Ass.” There’s a beat of silence and Cisco quickly backpedals.  “I mean, Barry. Barry’s an ass. Not you.”

“It’s quite all right.” He literally hand waves it.

Cisco finishes his flute and in a pathetic attempt to recollect his thoughts asks, “Do you want one?”

There’s a nod. That’s all it takes for Cisco to head back down to the main level to accost a waiter. It provides him with much needed air. 

He returns shortly after with two flutes. It’s a surprise he doesn’t trip on the way back up to the balcony. His heart has calmed down at this point and he’s resigned himself to cool indifference. Or at least, pretending.

“That was fast,” Wells remarks but graciously accepts the champagne. He brings it to his lips and takes a sip. The action is simple, but the reaction not so much. Just like combining two inert chemicals only for them to cause an uproar. Cisco can’t help but watch the way his lips fall against the glass, the way his eyes peer over the edge, endlessly blue and full of years of experience, hurt, genius. Someone get him off this ride.

“I try,” Cisco finally answers with a laugh. He brings his own glass to his lips and takes a sip. 

“ _Dom Perignon_ ,” Wells says with some sort of an accent Cisco can’t place. “Unsurprising.”

“You can tell just by sipping it?” Cisco asks, slightly impressed. Anybody would be impressed, he tells himself. He isn’t flirting. Most definitely is _not flirting_.

“Yes,” there’s a pause and then Wells says with a slight smirk, “That, and I saw the bottles earlier this evening.”

“Jerk,” Cisco says with a full-bodied laugh. He’s smiling and he’s almost entirely forgotten what’s been keeping him up at night for the past few weeks. “You totally had me.”

“I know.” 

There’s a definitive twinkle in his eye. It has to be there, right? Cisco isn’t just imagining it? Not sure how to respond, Cisco takes another sip.  
“Champagne is meant to be savored. Or at least, sipped during a toast. It isn’t water,” Wells scolds, but it seems in good fun because he takes another sip of his own.

Cisco almost blushes, almost, but manages to save face by looking away back towards the city lights. “Hey man, when you’re given the chance to drink expensive champagne, might as well go big or go home.”

“If you like it that much, I always have it stocked.”

Stocked? Stocked where? Definitely not at the labs. So where is it stocked? In his apartment? The mere thought, the mere suggestion of it has Cisco’s toes curling for no real reason.

“Oh yeah?” he laughs for a lack of anything better to say.

“Mm.” It’s a noncommittal noise. Thankfully for Cisco, he continues, “Though after your showing last week, I wouldn’t recommend chugging it, even if it’s endless.”

Calling him out on his shit. Classic. Cisco clears his throat and sheepishly rubs at the back of his neck. It surprises him when he doesn’t find the little wisps of hair that are usually there, but then remembers that yes, his hair is indeed gelled to the maximum. _Thanks_ Barry.

“Are you really going to stay up here all night?” Cisco finally asks, uncertain where else to take the conversation. Before, they’d argue about movies or pop culture references that Wells barely gets, or they’d work through theorems and formulas together. Or Cisco would listen to the way Wells plucked at the keys of the computer, endless genius at work. But now. Now it was hard to hold the most normal of conversations. He blamed the alcohol and the jitters in his stomach.

“That depends,” Wells says, slowly. “What the remainder of the evening brings.”

Ha. Ha ha ha. Cisco feels chills down his spine at the same time his mouth goes as dry as a desert. That wasn’t suggestive _at all_. 

“Yeah, I mean, it’s only nine and this thing ends at, what? Ten or something.” Cisco is aware that he’s rambling but he can’t stop the word vomit, can’t stop the flood of thoughts that pour from his lips. He’s nervous and he doesn’t handle flirting all that well. Especially when he isn’t sure if the flirting is effective or reciprocated or even warranted.

“Eleven, but yes,” Wells says, the twinkle still present. “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? Why would anything be wrong?” _Keep it cool, Ramon. Cool. Steady. Like the tortoise._

“You’re sweating.”

Oops?

Nervously, Cisco raises his hand to his head and rubs the back of it against his forehead. Sure enough, beads of sweat are present. He silently curses and looks back down at Wells. “Alcohol does it to me. Kinda gross. Sorry.”

“No apologies needed,” Wells says and turns back to look at the city, sipping on the champagne. The odd tension is momentarily gone. 

Cisco shifts his feet restlessly.  
“Anyway, I think Caitlin and Iris should be here by now. I—” Cisco begins and as fate would have it, and apparently habit, too, he spills the glass of champagne half on the floor, and half on his boss.

On his boss.

On Harrison Wells.

Please kill him now.

“Shit, oh crap, I’m sorry--!” Cisco blurts out as his arms frankly flail around, looking for anything that can be used as a napkin. He settles on wrangling off his tie (good riddens) and trying to use that to soak up the booze on Harrison Well’s right arm. Thankfully, the champagne just got his sleeve but that’s probably an expensive suit and Cisco is apparently just as good at ruining things. 

As luck would have it, their phones started to buzz. Wells is the first to check, carefully extracting the buzzing device from his soaked suit jacket. Cisco takes a few seconds to realize his is ringing, too, and reaches into his jacket to check. Meta alert. _Perfect timing_. Not.

“We should go…” Cisco begins, uncertainty.

“Yes. Let’s.”

•••••••••• 

The taxi-ride over to STAR labs, which isn’t too far, is different. There’s something different in the air. Maybe it’s all in Cisco’s head, but he can’t help but notice the way Wells’s foot accidentally bumps against his for the entirety of the ride. He figures the guy doesn’t even notice it – Cisco never asked too many questions when it came to the gravity of Doctor Well’s’ injury – but it still lights something up in Cisco like a Christmas tree.

When they arrive back at STAR labs, Barry and Caitlin are already waiting for them. Barry tosses them a confused look and Caitlin just smiles.

“Took you two long enough,” Barry chuckles, eyes darting between Wells and Cisco. 

“That’s—” Cisco feels defensive, face turning a light red definitely because of the wine.

“Not everyone can be fast as you,” Doctor Wells says calmly as he peels off his suit jacket. Thankfully, the white dress shirt isn’t stained. Right. Barry was just making a speed joke. He wasn’t insinuating that they had been together before this. Cisco needed to get his head in the game. It was dangerous to be this flighty.

“What happened to your jacket, Doctor Wells?” Barry questions. Doctor Wells ignores it and heads over to the computers. Realizing he wasn’t getting an answer, Barry clears his throat, “Well, let’s go kick some meta-ass.” 

And just like that, the group springs into action. Just like that, everything is the same as it’s always been. Barry is out on the field and he and Caitlin are speedily typing away, getting coordinates and locating potential issues for him. Harrison Wells is overseeing them and speaking to Barry over the mic. It’s always encouraging, in a proud-but-tough-as-nails parent sort of way. _Run, Barry, Run_. Cisco sometimes envies it. He isn’t sure why.

Barry brings down the meta at the factory fairly easily. It was someone with superhuman strength, nothing entirely out of the norm. Barry manages to use a few of his speed mirages to trick the meta into thinking he’s in two places at once. It’s been one of his favorite maneuvers lately. 

“That was certainly a night,” Barry laughs when he makes it back to the lab. He changes out of his suit in record time and begins patting down his forehead, collecting the beads of sweat.

“It was,” Caitlin says, yawning shortly thereafter. “I’m wiped. I think I’m going to start heading home.”

“Good call.” Barry stretches his arms above his head and yawns, too. “Good job tonight, guys. I think we’re really getting the hang of this.”

Caitlin nods enthusiastically, matched with a smaller nod from Wells. “My feet are killing me.”

“Look at what you’re wearing.” Barry’s jab is met with a physical jab in his side by Caitlin Snow’s elbow. 

Caitlin takes that as her opportunity to start heading for the door. She throws her hand up in a wave as she leaves. They’ll see each other tomorrow – they always do.

Barry is still smiling to himself, as he does after the rush of saving the day. His gaze drifts back to Cisco and Doctor Wells. “Well, I’m gonna jet. Beauty sleep and all that.” A laugh. “Cisco, I’m heading your way, wanna come with?”

There’s panic again. Usually, Cisco would jump on the chance to rattle on about trivia or nonsense while walking with Barry. He enjoyed the banter they would get into and he enjoyed their developing friendship. But tonight? Tonight he wasn’t sure. Tonight, he didn’t want this spell that had come over him to end. He knew it’d be gone in the morning, that whatever heaviness he had felt on the balcony, in the taxi, would disappear. 

“I think I’m gonna stick around a bit longer. Catch up on some things,” Cisco says and it sounds pathetic; it sounds like an excuse. _Not smooth at all_.

“Right. Don’t fall asleep on your desk again.”

“That was once,” Cisco laments and then waves as Barry heads to the door.

He regrets staying, because now that they’re alone there’s a chilliness to the air he hadn’t noticed before. He can’t breathe all that well and he isn’t sure what to _do_ next. Should he save some face, muster together the last bits of his pride? Cisco begins fiddling with some of his papers on the desk. His palms are sweating and he thinks walking home with Barry in the dark was a _much better_ idea.

“Cisco.”

The voice silences him, stills him. He sets the papers back down, casually pats them, and then turns around to face Doctor Wells. 

“It’s late. No need to do any work,” he says, calmly. 

“Well…”

“If I recall, we stopped halfway through—ah, what was it, _Dreamcatcher_?”

Cisco perks up. That’s safe. Watching movies and making crappy references during them was his thing. This was something comfortable, something familiar. The swelling his chest momentarily subsides.

“That’s right! I can’t believe we stopped halfway through that.” And before he can stop himself he asks, “Wanna watch at my place since it’s late?”

 _Smooth move, Ramon_ , he thinks because Harrison Wells looks the slightest bit surprised. His brows lift up and then there’s a stirring of smile. It lights the fire right back in Cisco.

“I don’t see why not. Sure.”

*******

There’s no touching in this taxi-ride. Cisco sees to it that all arms remain affixed closely to his person at all times. It’s already embarrassing enough that he’s invited his boss – his crush – over to his messy apartment at eleven at night to watch a pretty shitty horror movie. He doesn’t need to add awkwardly playing footsie in the back of a cab with a guy who’s handicapped who probably can’t feel it to the list. Sheesh.

When they get to his place, Cisco thanks whatever deity is out there that his apartment complex has handicap accessibility because he isn’t sure if he could muster up the energy or willpower to carry Harrison Wells bridal style to his apartment. He isn’t sure he could come back from that. Regardless, the elevator ride is uneventful and they make it to his front door without issue. Cisco unlocks it and let Wells inside. Immediately, Cisco goes to find whatever wine he has laying around because there’s no possible way he can survive tonight sober. 

He’s thankful that Wells isn’t commenting on his slightly-messy apartment. He hadn’t been expecting guests, and even if he knew ahead of time Wells would be here, he’s convinced that his apartment would never be as grand as what Wells is accustomed to. So Cisco simply fetches the wine and forces himself to stop thinking about it. 

Wells has managed to seat himself on the couch at that point. Cisco’s glad that he was busy finding wine because he’s sure there’s some pride thing involved. He’s sure that Wells doesn’t like people gawking as he tries to be a normal human being.

“So it’s not Dom Pernignon, but it’s a pretty good merlot my mom would always have,” Cisco says as he comes over to the couch with a bottle, two glasses, and a corkscrew. Wells makes an agreeable noise and offers to unscrew the bottle. Cisco shakes his head and goes on to say, “Hey, I’m the host, you’re the guest.”

Wells rolls his eyes and instead settles upon holding his glass for Cisco when he’s finished opening the bottle. 

A few minutes later, they’d both equipped with red wine and Cisco is turning on Netflix to find the movie. _Netflix and chill, much?_ his mind taunts him and he wiggles his toes that are up on his coffee table. 

“I agree with Allen. I don’t see how you can watch these things before bed,” Wells says as he takes a lazy sip of wine.

“Just kinda got used to it,” Cisco explains and he is acutely aware of how small his couch is and how he had opted to sit in the middle of it instead of the far side. He can practically feel Wells’s leg against his.

“Is this why you’re always tired in the morning?”

“Ha. Very funny.” 

Cisco figures that Wells is referring to the past week. There’s a bundle of guilt that blossoms in his gut and he opens his mouth to apologize but stops himself in the last possible second. He knows Wells wasn’t trying to make him feel bad, he knows that Wells just has a tendency to be brutally honest. He knows this about his – friend? – and he figures it’s better to just drop it. 

So they drink.

Cisco finds the red wine far more comforting than the expensive champagne from earlier. It reminds him of home—of the days he’d stay up late alternating between homework and video games. Of the days he’d rush home with the newest comic and slam his face into a home cooked meal. It reminds him of when life was simpler.

Wells doesn’t say much. He drinks his wine slower than Cisco, taking small sips every few minutes. The room is dark and the only decent light is coming from the television eight or so feet away. Cisco catches himself looking at Wells out of the corner of his eye every now and then. There’s something absolutely _sinister_ in the way his lips curve against the glass, tongue flitting out occasionally to test the wine.

Around thirty minutes into the movie, Cisco discovers that their shoulders are touching. He isn’t sure how it happened, but he doesn’t make it stop, either. He notices it when Wells actually _laughs_ at something on the screen. He can feel the vibration and it rattles him.

“Unbelievable that they keep splitting up like that,” Wells mumbles. He shifts, reaching for the bottle to pour himself another glass. When he settles back in, his arm stretches against the back of the couch. 

Cisco feels the ends of his hair catch – just for a split second – on Wells’ hand as he moves. He _swears_ that the tips of his fingers purposely brush against the nape of his neck in their travels. Even if it’s not the case, what is unequivocally true is that he’s now half-nestled against Wells. He’ll blame his sinking and shifting couch. But neither of them move and continue watching.

“That’s just bad science,” Wells interrupts again. “How do they expect anyone to believe that?”

“Dude, it’s called suspension of belief,” Cisco corrects and he hears Wells stifle a chuckle. “What? It’s a thing.”

“It’s an excuse for bad science,” Wells reiterates, glancing over at Cisco.

They’re close. They’re oh-so very close. They’re _so_ close that Cisco can see the five o’clock shadow starting to form on Harrison’s face. He can see the way his lips twist up, just slightly, when he’s amused. He can see the shadows cast on his face, accenting his strong jawline. 

“Hey, I think this movie has some of the more realistic aliens. And it was made awhile ago.”

“You call a slug realistic?”

“It’s an _alien_ , not a slug. So yeah, I do. It’s simple and realistic. _Boom._ ”

Wells is laughing. He’s actually laughing, eyes shut, chest rising and falling. He’s laughing and Cisco is smiling ear to ear because he did that, he made that happen. Cisco barely notices the hand on his far shoulder, Wells’ arm now fully wrapped around him. Cisco barely notices the way Wells’ fingers knead at the fabric of his dress-shirt.

“You’re unbelievable, Ramon,” Wells says as the chuckles finally simmer down.

“Only because I’m right,” Cisco urges, laughing as well. His mind catches up with him and he feels the hand on his shoulder, feels the heat radiating off Wells. His cheeks stain a brighter pink. “Admit it, Mister Critic. I’m right.”

“I’d never do that,” Wells says, amusement seeping from his voice. His hand leaves Cisco’s shoulder – and Cisco misses it immediately – but it’s not for long. Strong fingers brush away the stubborn lock of hair that’s managed to come undone from the gel. Wells brushes it behind Cisco’s ear, deliberate and focused.

Things just got weird. Things just got really weird and Cisco isn’t sure he can even think of a time that Wells has touched him. Wells isn’t big on the supportive pat on the back nor is he a big hugger. Shocking, really. 

“Then you admit defeat, if you can’t admit I’m right,” Cisco says, stupidly, just to fill the void, just to keep this moment going because he’s suddenly terrified of losing it, of Wells pulling away, of returning to the movie.

“Well,” Wells begins, voice low and his hand leaves Cisco’s hair only to linger in the distance between them, pads of his fingers ‘accidentally’ grazing the curve of Cisco’s jaw. “If that’s the case, what does the victor claim as his worthy prize?”

Cisco feels heat course through him and he’s certain Wells is quoting some cheesy film they’ve watched together. Still, it doesn’t stop the tendrils from coiling in his stomach, heat coursing through him, blood liquid fire.

“I don’t… need a prize,” Cisco says and he doesn’t even convince himself. 

He loses track of his thoughts, of where he was going with that, when Wells leans in and whispers, “You deserve one,” and kisses him.

It’s slow. It’s very slow. It’s not a messy and hot kiss like Cisco imagines at night when he’s trying to sleep. It isn’t scrambling, flailing arms. It’s just a slow press of lips against his, warm and breathing life into him.

Cisco is too stunned to react. Not at first. His body ceases up and he can’t even blink. He knows it’s impolite to stare when someone is kissing you, but he can’t process the fact that Harrison Wells is kissing him. The cold, calculating, confident and distant Harrison Wells.

Wells pulls away, just an inch, endless blue eyes surveying Cisco. Cisco stares back at him, a large bubble in his throat preventing him from speaking. He wants to sputter, wants to slap himself to make sure that _this just happened_.

It’s the wine. It has to be the wine. It’s the wine and—

And Cisco loses the last shred of control he has. He leans forward and kisses Wells, hard. He uses his free hand to lodge itself in Harrison’s short hair and keep them close. His fingers, short fingernails and all, cling to the back of Wells’ head as he tries to get as close as physically possible.

The kiss continues and Cisco all but wrangles himself into Wells’ lap. He manages to deposit his wine glass on the side-table beside Wells somewhere along the way. It frees up his hands and he places them both on Wells’ shoulders for support, still mashing their lips together like a teenager playing seven minutes in heaven for the first time.

Cisco comes up for air – and panics. His eyes spring open and he’s staring down at a completely disheveled Harrison Wells. At some point he must have taken his glasses off because there’s just blue looking back at him, peering at him, analyzing him.

Cisco could die from embarrassment.

“Welllll….” Cisco begins, heart pounding as he lifts his hands off Wells’ shoulders as if they’re on fire, “ _that_ got awkward fast,” he says, trying to preserve his last bit of dignity. He’s about to scoot off Wells’ lap when he feels strong – really strong – hands on his hips.

“Stay.”

It sounds like an order. It’s chilling and Cisco stops moving, stops resisting. He gulps and stares uselessly down at his boss. His _boss_. He just made moves on his much older boss and oh _god_.

“Cisco, Cisco, Cisco,” Wells chides as he tilts his head up and manages to press hot, open-mouthed kisses along the engineer’s neck. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to finish what you started?” 

“You did, at some point,” Cisco jokes and he gasps at the very addicting sensation of having his neck kisses. “At least I think so.”

“That’s right,” Wells agrees, his fingers trailing along the small of Cisco’s back. His fingers then dip down to trace the waist of Cisco’s slacks, catching down into a belt loop. “That’s good.”

Cisco didn’t realize he had a praise-kink until now, but it makes sense. His heart thuds and threatens to burst out of his chest. His fingers, at a loss for what to do, fumble with Wells’ tie and buttons, trying to get his shirt undone as fast as conceivably possible.

It’s nothing like the movies. Removing clothing is hard when you’re on someone’s lap and when you’re nervous as well. He nearly loses his balance and falls off Wells’ lap as he tries to wrangle off his own shirt. But he manages, stripping down to just his undershirt. Naturally, Wells isn’t wearing an undershirt beneath his dress shirt and he’s just sitting there with his shirt unbuttoned, chest peaking out. It’s _perfect_.

He isn’t one to put out on the first date – was this even a date? – but he’s been wanting this for so long. He catches Wells’ eye and his cheeks burn even redder. Cisco can’t handle himself and he’s about to swing himself onto the floor to suck his boss off when Wells places his hands firmly on Cisco’s waist.

It takes Cisco a hot second to realize what’s going on. But when he feels the hips below him snap up and _grind_ into his, he understands. 

He’s whining, he’s certain he’s whining because he hasn’t gotten off in a couple of days and furthermore he’s frotting with the most recent object of his affection. His hands slide themselves down Wells’ chest and land on the cushions behind him. Cisco clutches the fabric for dear life as he gyrates his hips back down against Wells.

His mind lazily thinks, and thanks the gods, that he isn’t paralyzed _here_. That he has enough mobility to still do _this_.

Cisco continues grinding against him, making choked noises every now and then. He feels hands wandering down his back, over his ass. Those hands grab at him and pull him closer, increasing the friction.

“Shit,” Cisco all but whimpers, body already sweaty and suddenly thankful that his hair is gelled so it’s out of the way. “Shit this feels really good,” he whispers, more so to himself because he’s so tipsy and he just needs to tell _someone_ , anyone. 

Wells isn’t saying anything, but he keeps pulling him closer, grinding closer, making marks up along Cisco’s neck and down along his barely exposed collar bone. He seems seasoned, practiced, and Cisco thinks this may in fact be a dream.

It isn’t long before Cisco is unable to keep himself from coming. He knows he’s a cheap date and he knows it’s going to be disgusting to clean up because he’s how old and he just came in his pants? Cisco breathes out, labored, trying to catch his breath, realizing slowly that Wells hasn’t come. It makes sense, Cisco thinks, and with the last shred of shame he has, he shoves his hand down his boss’s pants in order to grab his cock.

It should be simple, right? It’s just like jerking yourself off. Sort of. Except he hasn’t actually been with a guy before (beyond awkward kissing) and just wow. 

He tries to ignore the way his face burns as he jerks his hand up and down. He tries not to look Harrison in the eyes because this is actually really embarrassing. 

Eventually, and surprisingly quickly, Wells comes. It’s a deep, guttural sigh and Wells buries his hand in Cisco’s hair as he slowly rides out the orgasm. It’s sticky and so much hotter than Cisco ever imagined it would be.

Cisco slumps back against him, remaining in his lap, still catching his breath. So _that_ just happened. He’s certain it’s the wine. He’s certain Wells had too much and was just sexually frustrated. He’s sure Wells doesn’t get the chance to date much and this was a convenient affair. Cisco isn’t sure why that frightens him. He isn’t sure why he’s so attached, why he’s so afraid that this actually meant something to him and not to Wells.

“Should I…?” Cisco asks, wondering if he should grab some towels or napkins or go shoot himself.

“Later,” Wells tells him, arm coiling loosely around him. And he’s holding him. Actually holding him. 

Cisco feels his heart swell and he laughs, cheek pressed to Wells’ chest. “ ‘kay…”

“First my shirt now my pants. You really do hate my suit, Cisco,” Wells murmurs, fingers carding through his gelled hair.

Cisco smiles, and thinks, maybe it’ll be okay. Maybe this is the start of something. Maybe this all means something. He rolls his eyes and barks back, “Yeah, whatever.” But he’s smiling and he isn’t leaving this spot for at least another hour.

Which is what makes it so much harder, so much worse when a few months later he stares into the eyes of Eobard Thawne, the _Reverse Flash_ , and sees nothing but loathing and discontent for the world; he doesn’t see the same look of fondness, the same lust, the same amusement from the year past. All Cisco sees is a selfish man who’s killed hundreds and is breaking his heart.

“I truly am sorry, Cisco,” is what Eobard says.

 _I’m sorry I wasn’t enough for you_ is what Cisco answers in his head, guilty, disgusted, betrayed and broken.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know your thoughts please!!!


End file.
